Ken

I met him on a slow, rainy Tuesday in December.

The club was nearly empty. There was one guy in VIP, surrounded by 3 very haggard-looking strippers, and a couple of depressed gentlemen in the corners, drinking themselves into oblivion. No one wanted dances. I could hear the rain pounding into the roof and the thunder outside. No one wants to be here tonight, I thought. We’re all just seeking shelter from the rain.

Some nights are like that.

I ate a cheeseburger in the dressing room and tried to read, but it was hard to concentrate, so I walked back into the club, bored out of my mind. Thinking: maybe I’ll drink myself into a coma.

He was sitting at the bar, having a beer with one of the managers. A tall youngish man, with thick, dark hair, I noticed him immediately. He stuck out, somehow. Like me.

I ordered 2 shots of Patron and a martini for the chaser – quick and efficient. His eyes bored into my body, checking me out. I faced him, smiling.

“Are you Polish?” he asked me.

“Half. How did you guess?”

“I spent a lot of time in Eastern Europe, touring with my band,” he said. So he was a musician. “You’re very pretty.”

“Thanks, but I get told that a lot, working here. It’s kind of my job.” I grinned at him, reaching into my shoe to pay for the drinks. He beat me to it.

“Sit here and talk to me.” He had a crooked smile and huge brown eyes. I’m the biggest sucker for brown eyes.

So I stayed. We talked about life and music and Northern California, where we both grew up. He told me about his rockstar days in the 90s and his job now, programming.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said.

I felt like I could trust him. That, or I was feeling drunk and suicidal. It’s so hard to tell, with that kind of thing.

He drove us, through the downpour, to his house, a mid-sized McMansion north of downtown. In his brightly-illuminated kitchen, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a little baggy full of coke. He sprinked it onto the pristine counter, used a razor to cut a few lines, and handed me a rolled-up one-dollar bill.

From the first snort I knew it was my kind of drug. All my insecurities melted away, replaced by a euphoric feeling of self-adulation. Those nagging questions in the back of my mind, such as “what am I doing with my life?” and “should I look for a real job?” ceased to matter; I was invincible.

We snorted 5 lines each and went outside to smoke. I could not stop talking. I went on and on about myself, until Ken kissed me on the mouth, just to shut me up. Making out, we stumbled back inside. He ripped off my shirt, unzipped his pants.

“No,” I said.

His hands were in my bra, up my skirt, everywhere at once. I was pinned to the fridge.

“I don’t want to do this,” I said, sure now. The coke was wearing off. I could see how old he was now, underneath the stark kitchen lights; and pathetic, holding his rapidly-shrinking penis in one hand, his pants around his knees.

“I’m sorry.”

He drove me back to the car, visibly annoyed.

For a long time, I sat in the empty parking lot, listening to the rain. In place of the high of the coke I felt a crushing oppressive, sadness. In my car in the dark, I sobbed uncontrollably.